


The Case of the Missing Blogger

by Calais_Reno



Series: Just Johnlock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blogging, Developing Friendships, Don't copy to another site, Epic Penis Fun, Everyone had a blog in 2010, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock has a blog, Suicidal Thoughts, Typing Mishaps, damn you autocorrect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Sherlock makes a virtual friend. And loses him. And finds him again.“He’s my blog buddy.”This isn’t exactly true. I’ve only been following John H Watson for fifteen minutes— twenty now. But on the internet such things don’t matter. People have hundreds of “friends” on the internet, just by virtue of clicking a button. I am following John H Watson, so I consider him a friend. My only friend.“On the internet?” Lestrade asks.“Of course on the internet. Where else do people have blogs?”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Just Johnlock [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856749
Comments: 47
Kudos: 209
Collections: Johnlock Anniversary - January 29th





	The Case of the Missing Blogger

“Nobody reads your blog.” Sally Donovan looks at me smugly. “Seriously, Sherlock. People don’t want to read about tobacco ash and soil types and solvents.”

It's hardly worth replying to such imbecility, but I am a bit stung by her remark. “Some people might improve themselves by reading about such things, especially if they are a detective sergeant whose career depends upon the observation of details.”

Anderson snorts. Donovan continues looking smug. “Only a freak would think that people want to read that.” She follows this remark up with what I suppose is an impersonation of me. “Bo-ring.”

Since we have now reached the level of petty insults, I turn to leave. Lestrade falls in step with me as I head to find a cab.

“I read your blog,” he says. “It’s very… educational.”

He says this the way most people would admit to having a colonoscopy. Since he has not asked a question, I make no reply.

“You know a lot of stuff, and it’s good you’re willing to share it. It’s just that not everybody is going to appreciate it.”

“I don’t write my _stuff_ for everybody.”

“I know,” he says. “What I mean is, you shouldn’t be disappointed if you don’t have a lot of followers.”

Lestrade may think that what he’s seeing is disappointment, but I have never been a competitive person. Mostly, I excel at the things I choose to do— without exerting much effort. Quite simply, I am a genius who enjoys sharing my knowledge, and I do not need people to praise me for doing so. My motive is simply to educate.

My mistake, perhaps, is in overestimating the average person’s interest in adding to their knowledge. Who wouldn’t want to be more observant? But for observation to be anything more than opinion, it has to be founded in knowledge, facts, reality. It is irrelevant whether you think Val Kilmer was a terrible Bat Man or they shouldn’t have made another Terminator movie. Determining whether Marvel or DC is better (I don’t even know what that means) will not unlock the mysteries of the universe. Your opinion on any of these things doesn’t matter because—

Lestrade is wearing a slight smile on his face, and I am not sure what this means. Expressions are something I have recently been working on. Categorising them seems like a simple task, except for the infinite variation. Some people smile when they are angry, for example. Many cry when they are happy. I am not sure what Lestrade’s smile means. He is generally a kind person, but he often finds me exasperating. Perhaps he is a person who smiles when he is losing his patience.

“Don’t take it to heart, mate,” he says.

“I don’t care what people think, as an aggregate,” I reply. “I do have many acquaintances, however, and as individuals who have witnessed my methods, they should— I thought… I had expected that more of them would follow.”

“How many followers does your blog have?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

His smile widens. “Go on. How many?”

“One.” I try to appear unconcerned. “I assume that one person is you. As I have repeatedly said, most people are idiots.”

“And I assume that following your blog means I am not an ordinary idiot.”

Sometimes Lestrade is an idiot. This doesn’t bother me because he is intelligent enough to know when he needs my help, and tries to stay out of my way while I’m working. He doesn’t taunt me or call me a freak.

“You deserve more readers,” he says. “The way you write, though, might put people off. Just a tad. You’re sort of condescending.”

“How so?”

“I mean, you talk down to people, make them feel stupid. You had two comments on your last post, the one about types of mould, and instead of _educating_ them, you shut them down.”

“How else am I to talk to people who are beneath me?”

“The fact that they’re reading your posts at all means that they want to learn. Just don’t… scare them away.”

I shrug. This might explain why I have no friends. Well, Lestrade can possibly be counted as a friend. We have conversations, and not only about cases. Right now, for example, we are discussing my blog. That, I assume, is a friendly conversation. And he follows my blog, so that must mean that he considers me a friend.

“If you want more followers,” he says, “you should look at some other blogs. If you follow another person’s blog, they’ll follow yours.”

“Why?”

“You’re showing interest in what they have to say. You can comment on their posts, and they’ll comment on yours. Like a conversation.”

I suppose it is possible to have friends on the internet. There are in fact people who _date_ people they know only online. As I understand _dating_ , it involves two people who like each other going out and having fun. I’m not sure how that works when both people involved are on the internet, not physically present with one another. In my case, however, it might be a good thing to cultivate virtual friends. Actual people never like me. Even Lestrade has to work at it.

“Do you have a blog?” I ask. “I could follow you.”

He shakes his head. “No time for that. Besides, that would defeat the purpose of following, since I already follow your blog. You need to reach more people.”

“There are millions of blogs,” I say. “How am I to decide which to follow?”

“There’s a button you can click that lets you see a random blog. Just click through a few each time you’re online. You’re bound to find someone that interests you. Or at least someone who isn’t completely boring.”

I am back at my flat, exploring the world of virtual friendship. I have learned several things. Many blogs do not focus on a specific topic, like soil types, for example. They are more like diaries. I really have no desire to read someone else’s daily complaints about their boss, their spouse, or the people they work with. I don’t need to know what they ate for lunch, or what they watched on the telly last night. I don’t want to know about the awful novel they’re writing or see their vacation photos. I especially do not need to see funny pet videos.

After viewing sixteen random blogs, I decide that I am wasting my time. All of the blogs are different, but they are also the same— boring. It doesn’t matter how many random blogs I look at; I will never find one that interests me enough to follow. Statistically speaking, my virtual soulmate is probably out there, but random clicking will not lead me to them any time soon.

Random blogger number seventeen will be my virtual soulmate, I decide, no matter how boring the blog is. I click the button.

_The Personal Blog of John H Watson_. Grey-green colour scheme. No pictures. Three entries. Zero followers.

Well, at least I have one more follower than John H Watson. And he does not seem prolific, which makes my job as a follower and commenter much easier. I read on.

Entry #1, December 15: Pointless.

Nothing ever happens to me.

Comments: 0

Entry #2, January 1: New Year.

Spent holidays in London, alone in this dreary bedsit. I guess I should make some resolutions. Okay, I resolve to write this blog every day, but that’s only because my therapist thinks it will do me good.

Comments: 0

Entry #3, January 27: No Title.

Haven’t kept my resolution. Maybe this will be my last entry. I am finding it hard to get out of bed each day, knowing that there is no point. I don’t want to write about what happened to me. Most days, I try to think of a reason to keep living. Today, I finally realised that there is no reason. No one will miss me if I’m gone. I won’t leave a hole in anyone’s life. Maybe it’s time to leave this party.

Comments: 0

I see that this entry was posted less than an hour ago. I imagine John H Watson sitting at his computer, waiting for someone to notice him.

The blogosphere is a lonely place, I realise. Here we are, two friendless men with no comments.

I will comment.

Entry #3, January 27. No Title.

Comment from Sherlock Holmes, _The Science of Deduction_ : _Hello, John…_

Before I can formulate a comment that will give him a reason not to leave the party, another comment pops up on the screen.

Entry #3, January 27. No Title.

Reply from Anonymous: _Quit whinging. Go off yourself, loser._

And within seconds, there is a reply:

Entry #3, January 27. No Title.

Reply from John H Watson: _Thanks, mate. Think I will_.

I sit, staring at my screen in horrid fascination. In real life, nobody would be so cruel, and John H Watson would never be so honest. Though I am not a polite person (I am, in fact, a rude arsehole, if people’s reactions are any indication), I would never tell someone to kill themselves. John H Watson was sitting, watching and waiting for someone to extend him a life preserver, and Anonymous has just pushed him beneath the waves. _Idiot._

I backspace and begin again, with more urgency.

Entry #3, January 27. No Title.

Comment from Sherlock Holmes, _The_ _Science of Deduction: Don’t kill yourself, John! Anonymous is an idiot, and you must not listen to idiots. You are clearly depressed. Please call your therapist, or a suicide hotline, or anyone you might consider a friend. There are people who can help you. Please do not take irrevocable action._

I enter my comment, hoping John H Watson is still watching his screen. I click the “Follow” button and wait for his reply.

After five minutes have passed, I try again.

Entry #3, January 27. No Title.

Comment from Sherlock Holmes, _The Science of Deduction:_ _John, if you are reading this, please reply. I am worried about you. I need to know that you are safe._

Ten minutes later, I am calling Lestrade.

“Slow down— explain again what’s happened,” he says.

“John H Watson,” I say. “I need to find this person now. He is suicidal.”

“How do you know?”

“He said so. Said he was going to _off_ himself.”

“He told you he was going to kill himself?”

“Yes! He announced it!”

“So where does he live?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you know him?”

“He’s my virtual friend, my blog buddy.” This isn’t exactly true. I’ve only been following him for fifteen minutes— twenty now. But on the internet such things don’t matter. People have hundreds of “friends” on the internet, just by virtue of clicking a button. I am following John H Watson, so I consider him a friend. My only friend.

“On the internet?”

“Of course on the internet. Where else do people have blogs?”

“And he said he was going to commit suicide.”

“Yes, which is why I need your help finding him. As soon as possible.”

“What did you say to him?”

“Nothing. I was— Wait— are you thinking that I made him suicidal?”

I hear his sigh. “You do have a reputation for offending people, Sherlock. Like when you told Mrs Gafney that she was the reason her husband killed himself. People can be quite rude on the internet. It’s the anonymity. Makes ‘em think they can say anything.”

“I wasn’t rude. That was Anonymous. Now, will you help me find my blog buddy?”

“He might be anywhere, Sherlock. He might be in Arizona or South Africa or Australia.”

“He said he was in London over the holidays. He didn’t mention any travel, so I assume lives here.”

“Okay, we’ll assume he lives in London, England, and hope he didn’t mean London, Ohio, or London, New Zealand.Now, how many John Watsons do you think live in London?”

“John _H_ Watson. He has a middle initial.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t make it much easier. In the first place, we have to consider that he might be John Henry, John Harold, John Herbert, Horace, Hubert— and just because he has a middle initial, it doesn’t mean he’s listed that way in the telephone directory. Databases don’t always include middle names.”

“Most of them do, though. Especially with a common name like John Watson, they’re likely to include the H in most directories.”

“All right, but we have to consider that John H Watson might not be this blogger’s real name.”

“What do you mean?”

I can hear him sigh. People sigh out of fondness and exasperation. This sigh means, _Why must I explain things to idiots?_ “It’s the internet, Sherlock,” he explains. “People are not always who they seem to be. They use aliases, screen names, handles. John H Watson might be Hamish MacLeod or Peter Jensen or Dmitri Vasilev or Naveen Gupta. He might be thirteen years old or ninety. He might be a woman.”

He is right, of course. “I think it’s his real name, though. People who make up names on the internet want to sound unique. They want to be googrrl or yuranass or monkeesex. They don’t want to be JohnHWatson6238.”

“All right. Since we have nothing else to go on, we’ll assume his name is John H Watson and that he lives in London. Anything else?”

“He has a therapist.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. I can’t see him doing this, but I know from his tone of voice that this is what his expression is doing. “Of course he does. And he’s probably talking to that person right now.”

“I begged him to reply, to let me know he was safe. It’s been almost a half an hour, and he hasn’t! We have to find him!”

“All right, I’m looking him up now.” There is a long pause while Lestrade very slowly types. A longer pause while he makes unhelpful noises such as _hm_ or _uh._ “Well, he doesn’t have a driving license.” More slow typing. “All right. There are one hundred and ninety-three John Watsons in the Met database. Twenty-nine of them have the middle initial H.”

“Fine,” I said. “That’s a place to start.”

“Sherlock, are you thinking you’ll visit all twenty-nine of these people and ask them if they’re planning to kill themselves?”

“No, I’m thinking we’ll do it together.”

I sense another eye roll. “All right. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

I organise all the John H Watsons by location. “I’ve made the assumption that he is poor,” I tell Lestrade as we get into his car to begin our search. “So we’ll start with areas that are primarily cheap rentals.”

“What? You don’t think rich folks get depressed?”

“He said he lives in a _dreary bedsit._ If he had money, he would live somewhere nicer. And even if I’m wrong, we have to narrow it down and start somewhere.”

Lestrade nods. “You’re really worried about this bloke.”

“I told you, he’s my friend.”

“He hasn’t responded to you,” he points out. “Maybe he isn’t interested in a friendship.”

“Then why does he have a blog? According to you, the whole point of the internet is to make friends with people who are not who they say they are.”

He shrugs. “Maybe he’s lying, trying to get attention. Did you ever think of that?”

I hadn’t, and now I realise what a novice I am at virtual relationships. “He’s not lying.”

“And how have you deduced that? By the honest font he chose? By the very sincere punctuation he uses?”

“There are tells, even in writing,” I reply. “Haven’t you ever received an email from a Nigerian prince, asking for your bank information? Did you give it to him?”

“Of course not,” he says. “It’s obvious— unsolicited contact, broken English—“

“That’s what I mean. There are signs when someone is lying, even in writing. Ten percent of the words John used in his three entries are first person pronouns, which is rather hard to do when you’re pretending to be someone else. As a person who frequently dons disguises, I can attest to this. In addition, lies always have details. John’s posts have very few, the only ones being _London_ and _dreary bedsit._ And the mention of a therapist. He gives no clues about what happened to put him in such a depressed state. If he were looking for something in return, he would give a sob story.”

He nods. “That actually makes sense. Maybe you ought to write a blog post: _Six ways to spot a fake blog._ People might actually read it.”

“People are idiots,” I reply.

The first John H Watson we visit is at least ninety years old. He does not know what a blog is. He is offended at the suggestion that he might be suicidal. He asks if we can bring him cigars because his nurse won’t let him smoke any more.

John H Watson Number Two is seven years old. I explain to his parents that even children can experience depression, and that I would feel better if they would let me talk to John H Watson so I can see he’s not suicidal. Lestrade has to show them his badge again so they will stop thinking we’re pedophiles.

When we knock on the door of the third John H Watson, no one answers. Panicking, I suggest that we break down the door.

“Not without reasonable cause,” Lestrade says as I ready myself for a run at the door. “There’s rules about busting into flats. Can’t just go breaking down doors willy-nilly. A warrant is what we need.”

“Reasonable cause?” I shout. “The man is suicidal! What other cause do we need?”

“We don’t know that this Watson is suicidal,” he replies calmly. “Are we going to break down the next twenty-six bloody doors as well if nobody answers?”

Breaking down doors sounds reasonable to me, and I am prepared to do so, even without Lestrade’s help, but he grabs me firmly, saying, “No, you daft git. We’ll go on to the next one, and come back if we don’t find him.”

“Perhaps he’s not at home,” I concede. “But it’s also possible that he might be getting ready to kill himself. A suicidal man isn’t likely to stop what he’s about to do just to see who’s ringing the bell.”

“Or maybe he’s deaf. Or taking a bath. Or—“

The door opens cautiously. A face peeks through the crack. “What the bloody fucking hell is all the noise?” John H Watson Number Three appears to be about forty. He has lost much of his hair, which might explain his depression. And his eyes are puffy, which means—

“You were asleep,” I observe. Lestrade sighs deeply.

“Yeah, I work nights.” The man rubs his eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“Are you John Watson?” Lestrade asks.

He nods, suspicious. “What do you want?”

“Are you… despondent?” I ask. He doesn’t look like a man preparing to kill himself, I decide, but it doesn’t hurt to check. “Maybe a tiny bit… suicidal?”

He looks a tiny bit murderous, to be honest. Instead of replying, he slams the door.

Lestrade pulls me away before I can ring the bell again.

Having crossed off John H Watson Numbers One, Two, and Three, we pay visits to nine more John H Watsons. Number Four is a college student (not a blogger), Number Six is lawyer (not depressed), Number Seven a car salesman (tried to talk Lestrade into buying a new model), Number Nine a truck driver (fuck off), Number Ten a psychologist (gave advice for dealing with depressed people), and Number Twelve a retired teacher (decried the ungrammatical way in which people write on the internet). Numbers Five, Eight, and Eleven are not home. We talked to neighbours of Five and Eleven. Number Five recently won the lottery and has gone on a safari, and Number Eleven has recently died.

“Was it suicide?” I ask his widow.

She slams the door in our faces.

I slide a note under the door of the remaining John Watson, Number Eight, whose neighbours don’t pay any attention to him, reminding him that he has one friend who will miss him if he offs himself.

Lestrade is making sounds, hinting that it’s too late to knock on doors now, so we should track down the remaining seventeen John Watsons tomorrow.

This is not on. “Absolutely not! My John is not taking a break from his suicidal thoughts, and we must not take a break from finding him.”

He sighs and uses his key fob to open the car. “Fine,” he says. “But we’ll need more petrol if we’re to see seventeen more tonight.”

My mobile buzzes as we climb back into Lestrade’s car. An alert: John H Watson has replied to my comment.

Entry #3, January 27. No Title.

Comment from John H Watson: _Still here. Not sure why._

I wave off Lestrade, who is trying to look at my mobile, and type my reply:

Entry #3, January 27. No Title.

Comment from Sherlock Holmes, _The Science of Deduction_ : _This is my phone number: ####-####*. Please call me now. Or text, if you prefer._

_*(Author Note: I do not actually have Sherlock’s phone number, nor do I want people dialling a random number I made up.)_

“You just put your phone number on the internet,” Lestrade points out. “Not a great idea.”

“John’s blog has one follower— me. The only other visitor rudely suggested that he off himself. If Anonymous calls me, I will glad to give him a piece of my mind.”

We wait several minutes, and I fear I’ve scared him off. I must remember that I’m dealing with a despondent, possibly suicidal man who may not welcome my interference. In the moments of silence, I ask myself why this matters. Why John H Watson, a person I’ve never even seen, about whom I know nothing other than what I learned in three laconic blogposts, with whom I’ve had not a single conversation, other than the five words with which he just replied to my comment? Why does he matter? Lestrade is right; he might be anybody.

“Might be a sociopath,” I mutter.

Lestrade snorts. “Your soulmate.”

A chime alerts me that I have a text message.

_— hi_

Though I have a firm rule against texting people who begin messages with the word _hi,_ I decide that this can be an exception.

— _Why do you want to kill yourself, John?SH_

“No, no,” Lestrade says, peering over my shoulder. “Ask him where he lives!”

“I have to gain his trust first,” I reply.

The dots have appeared, indicating that he is typing. Apparently, he is a very slow typist. We wait. The dots disappear, then reappear. Finally—

— _I read your blog_

_— My blog made you suicidal?SH_

_— I mean, I’m sorry. I’ve been reliably informed that I’m condescending. I hope you didn’t find anything I said disturbing.SH_

“Maybe he’s Anonymous Commenter Number Two on your blog, the one you called a pinhead,” suggests Lestrade.

“Shut up,” I suggest.

— _you’re a detective_

_— Yes. A consulting detective, the world’s only one.SH_

I hope this doesn’t sound condescending. Well, he’s seen my website, so he already knows.

— _then you can deduce_

_— You want me to deduce why you want to kill yourself? SH_

— _yes_

_— It might be faster if you just told me. SH_

_— people always pretend to care_

_— if you really care you will try_

“Where does he live?” Lestrade huffs impatiently. “We’ve still got seventeen addresses to check. And he might not even be one of those.”

_— John, if you will just tell me where you live, I’ll come over and prove that I care. SH_

Another long pause. No dots this time. I imagine him lying on a bed in his dreary bedsit, holding a gun. I should have asked him about weapons.

_— All right. May I ask you questions?SH_

“I’m going to head for the next address,” Lestrade says, starting the car. “Let me know if he gives you any clues.”

The dots reappear. ... _go ahead_

“Why would a person threaten to kill themselves?” I ask Lestrade.

“Because they’re strung out on drugs and their big brother is threatening to put them in rehab,” he replies.

This isn’t really fair, I think, but I try not to be condescending. “Too specific. Let’s start with broad categories.”

“Money.” He turns into another street, pulls up in front of yet another dreary block of flats.

— _Are you having financial difficulties?SH_

— _yes_

“He says he’s having money trouble,” I say. “What’s a good answer?”

“Is he a Nigerian prince?” Lestrade asks. “Maybe you should just give him your bank account information.”

“And you call _me_ insensitive,” I reply. “What kind of person jokes about a man who is prepared to kill himself?”

“Sorry. You’re a bit intense right now, Sherlock, and it’s throwing me off. I’m not used to you caring about people.”

I glance down at my phone, where no dots are appearing. Every second might be pushing him closer to ending it all. “What do I tell him?”

“Say that you can help,” he suggests.

“Not specific enough. I need to prove I care.” While I’m thinking, I start to type nonsense letters just so he’ll see the dots and know I’m still here, caring about him.

“I don’t think you want to be very specific,” Lestrade says. “Ask him what he needs.”

_— Epic penis fun? SH_

As soon as I hit _send,_ I realise I’ve sent him auto-corrected nonsense _._

_— Sorry. Fingers slipped. SH_

_— What do you need? SH_

There is a very long pause. No dots. John Watson is thinking I’m a sick, twisted person on the internet. He’d be better off texting with a Nigerian prince.

— _John, I’m sorry. I’m not a very good rapist. SH_

_— *typist SH_

_— sorry SH_

_— John. Please don’t do anything rash. I am sincerely concerned about you, and able to help you with your financial troubles. SH_

“Well, that was helpful,” Lestrade says. “Now he thinks you’re stalking him. Which you sort of are.”

“Next address,” I say. “Just drive. I’m going to try calling him.”

The number rings and rings and then goes to voicemail. It’s a generic message: _This user has not set up voicemail._

The night drags on. We stop for petrol, and Lestrade buys horrible coffee and stale doughnuts. We visit twelve more John H Watsons, leaving just five on the list. As average and common as the name is, these Watsons run the gamut in age, profession, size, shape, and every other parameter I can think of. Like John H Watson Number Eleven, Number Twenty-Three is dead, but he has been dead for several years. His wife hadn’t deleted him from the answering machine message because she likes to call the house and hear his voice. He sounded like a nice person.

Lestrade looks like he’s about to suggest we take another break. He’s thinking how to phrase his request so it won’t sound callous. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t care whether John H Watson lives or dies.

My phone beeps before he can frame his insensitive question. He parks, motions that he’s going to get more horrible coffee.

_— hi it’s me._

It’s a new phone number.

— _Who is this? SH_

_— sorry John Watson here. Phone died so I’m using someone elses_

“That him?” Lestrade has returned with two cups of coffee and a pastry bag. “What’s he say?”

“His phone died.”

Lestrade nods. “Ah. So he doesn’t know about the _epic penis fun?_ ”

“Shut up.”

_— A friend’s phone? SH_

_— no, sister._

While it’s too bad he doesn’t have a friend who can make sure he doesn’t do anything drastic, it leaves the door wide open for me to be the friend who does that for him. I have not had many friends, and have never talked somebody off the metaphorical ledge. I have inadvertently talked a few people _onto_ the ledge, however, so I proceed with caution.

— _Good. I’m glad to hear that she’s helping you. I want to help as well. What sort of financial trouble are you in? SH_

_— the usual. Small pension._

_— you’re retired, then? SH_

_— sort of. Invalided home._

_— military pension?SH_

_— yes army. money isn’t all of it tho_

_— You were injured. SH_

_— yes_

_— Afghanistan or Iraq? SH_

_— Afghanistan_

_— What type of therapy are you doing? SH_

_— useless_

_— PTSD? SH_

There is no reply. I try to parse what this might mean. “Military, injured, in therapy, depressed, money trouble…” I mutter.

“If he’s got all that, it’s likely he’s got women trouble as well,” Lestrade says.

“How do you figure that?”

“Do you think he’d be living in a bedsit, talking about killing himself if he had a wife or girlfriend who cared?”

“True.” I wonder why I didn’t think of this.

_— Girlfriend? SH_

At this point, before I can even tell whether John is starting to reply, my phone’s battery dies. Unfortunately, Lestrade doesn’t have the right kind of charger for my phone.

We visit several more John H Watsons on our way to Montague Street to get my charger. None of these Watsons is the right one, and I wonder if my John has even been back long enough to be listed in the directory. If he has a mobile phone, he probably doesn’t have a landline as well.

“You could use my phone,” Lestrade suggests.

“His phone number is on mine,” I reply.

He pulls his car over and parks in front of my building.

“This place is a dump,” he comments as he follows me inside.

“You could have waited in the car.”

“Needed to stretch my legs.”

I locate my charger and plug it in. My phone blinks: _0%_

We wait. Lestrade opens the refrigerator, looking for takeaway boxes. He opens several, makes a yuck face at each, and finally gives up. “Got any biscuits?”

“I think there’s a packet under my chair. If the mice haven’t found it.”

“This place is a dump,” he repeats. “You could move, you know.”

“I’ve found a place, but I can’t afford the rent.”

“Flatshare?”

“I’ve mentioned it to several people. Surprisingly, no one wants to live with me.”

He picks up the skull. “Whose is this? Your last flatmate’s?”

“I assume that is an attempt at humour. If so, I find it inappropriate and not funny in the least.”

My phone is 3% charged, which is not enough to view text messages.

“Don’t you have a plug for charging in the car?” he asks.

“I don’t have a car. Why would I have a plug for one?”

“Because most phones come with one. In the box.”

I shrug. My battery is now 5% charged. _Message waiting._

I open the text app.

_— no_

“ _No_ what?” Lestrade asks. He’s looking over my shoulder again.

“I asked him if he had a girlfriend. Clearly, he does not, though his answer could simply mean that he no longer has one, as they have broken up.”

I am typing.

_— Sorry. Battery died. Had to go home and get charger. SH_

I wait, but there is no reply.

_— John? Please tell me where you are. SH_

_— listen you leave my brother alone_

_— Who is this? SH_

_— I might ask you the same question pervy stalker_

_— I am not a stalker. Nor am I a pervert. SH_

_— You must be the sister with the phone. SH_

— Leave him alone. He’s better off without you.

“She thinks I’m his girlfriend,” I tell Lestrade.

“Who does?”

“I believe his sister has commandeered the phone.”

“Pervy stalker?” He laughs.

_— My name Sherlock Holmes. I met John on the internet. I follow his blog. Let me talk to him.SH_

_— LOL_

“Why is she sending me _lots of love?_ ” I ask Lestrade. “Is it sarcasm?”

He snorts. “It means _laughing out loud._ She doesn’t believe you. Probably thinks it’s a made up name. Jesus, Sherlock— don’t you ever use text acronyms?”

“No, and I don’t use those smiley-face things either. What’s wrong with words?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Look, if he’s with his sister, I’m sure he’s okay.”

I snort. “His sister does not sound like a sympathetic person.”

“Nevertheless, he’s not alone.”

I try one last time.

_— Is he okay? Please let me talk to him. SH_

_— Bye freak_

“Sounds like she knows you,” Lestrade says, then back-pedals. “I mean, she obviously has the wrong idea, but I’ve read the comments on your blog, and you do have that effect on people…”

“His girlfriend dumped him when he came home wounded from Afghanistan— already depressed because he had no money. The only place he could afford was a bedsit. His sister has problems of her own and isn’t helping.”

Lestrade regards me quietly, a small smile on his lips.

“What’s funny?” I ask irritably.

“Not funny,” he says. “I’m impressed. You really care about this Watson.”

“Of course. He’s my friend.” I realise that this is true. John Watson is my friend. His loss would affect me deeply. “I don’t have enough friends to be careless with them.”

“He’ll be fine, Sherlock. He was probably having a low moment. His sister isn’t going to let anything happen to him.”

“I wanted…” I sigh, looking down at the phone in my hand. _Bye freak._

“You wanted to help him,” Lestrade says. “And you probably did. Most people wouldn’t have cared enough to track him down. He wanted to talk to you enough to go and get another phone.”

“I didn’t find him, though.”

He lays a hand on my shoulder, a sign that he’s getting ready to leave.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says.

I lie awake, thinking. _John Watson is alive_. That’s a good thing, what I wanted to happen. But I’m disappointed. I wanted to be the one who saved him. I wanted to pound on his door, see his face, find him lonely and bereft, and tell him, _I care._

It’s unclear to me why this should be important. I’ve saved lives before, stopping murderers before they could kill again, seeing that the right person is accused and sent away for a crime. All that matters in those cases is solving the puzzle. Once solved, I lose interest, seek the next puzzle.

The puzzle of the missing John H Watson is solved, I suppose. But it isn’t enough.

I sit up and reach for my laptop. Intending to send a message, I open his blog, but see that he’s deleted all three entries, or made them private.

I already know what will happen. He will get a new phone, a new number. His sister is tired of his shit and will send him back to his bedsit. He’ll find a new place to live, and life will begin to look better. John Watson will live, and move on. He’ll do his physio, get a job, find a new girlfriend. I’ll never hear from him again.

I feel as if my heart has broken.

In the morning my phone is dead because I feel asleep looking at _if you really care you will try…_

I am done with this. There is no point in thinking any more about it. I plug in my phone and leave the flat. I’m going to have to figure out how to afford the Baker Street flat without someone to share the rent. I might ask Mycroft for a loan, but that would give him another way to control me, and I’m not sure it’s worth it.

 _Barts_ , I think. A morning in the morgue will cheer me up. Molly has a body she says I can use, continuing my research on post-mortem bruising. That will take my mind off the Case of the Missing Blogger. 

Some people might find beating a corpse with a riding crop to be _pervy_ , but Molly understands. She’s a good person, maybe even a friend. She saves body parts for my experiments and doesn’t talk too much. I’m not sure why she’s wearing lipstick today. I’ll think about that later, when I’m bored again.

I’m looking at a tissue sample when I hear voices in the hall. One of them sounds like Mike Stamford, and the other is unfamiliar.

“…a bit different from my day,” the voice says.

I hear footsteps approaching the path lab. In a few seconds they will be at the door, making small talk. Irritating. I could make some remarks about my research. That might be enough to make them go away and leave me in peace.

I glance up as they enter. The man is blond, shorter than average, and has been recently ill. No, wounded. He’s a soldier. His hair is military length, and his tan stops at the wrists. Army doctor. “May I use your phone, Mike?” I ask.

“What ’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry, left it in my coat.”

His companion reaches into his pocket and produces a phone. “Here. Use mine.”

I turn the phone over. _Harry Watson From Clara xxx_

I look at the man standing next to Mike, the man with sad eyes who is looking back at me, waiting to see if I know him.

I observe. And I see. John H Watson, my blog buddy.

“Your sister,” I say. “Harry, short for Harriet.”

“You were right about almost everything,” he says softly. “Afghanistan, wounded—“

“Army doctor,” I say. “ _No girlfriend_ means she broke it off. When you came home wounded, she wasn’t interested anymore.”

“No girlfriend means _no girlfriend_.”

“Wife?”

“Not married.”

He smiles. It’s a lovely smile that puts dimples in his cheeks, crinkles up his eyes adorably. “Allow me to quote from your website: _The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”_

 _Obvious,_ I think. I’m missing something obvious.

“Not a girlfriend,” I say. “Not a wife.”

“Right. Not my area.”

Oh. _Oh_ — _boyfriend._ “Your boyfriend broke up with you.”

He’s looking at me, and the smile has faded, leaving the sadness in his eyes. “My _ex-_ boyfriend.”

It’s always something.

I take him to look at the flat. Mrs Hudson gives me knowing looks, smiles at John and tells him, “We have all sorts around here. Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones.”

“Married?” John raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m afraid a marriage isn’t possible here. My flat mate is married to his work. At least, that’s what his website tells me.”

“You read my entire blog?” I try to remember what other ridiculous things I might have said. “You’re not Commenter Number Two, are you?”

He shakes his head, smiling. “No. I’m Follower Number Two.”

“You’re— my follower?”

“Well, I was hoping for more, actually.”

“Friends?” I ask. “You want to be my friend? Or…?”

He sniffs, licks his lips. His eyebrows rise into his fringe, asking a question. “You said something about _epic penis fun._ That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

###

 _The Personal Blog of John H Watson_.

Entry #4, January 29, 2010: A New Beginning

Dear Follower Number One (That’s you, Sherlock!):

There are not many people who would do what you did for me. I was lost and you found me. You gave me a home, a new life, and so much more. I owe you so much more than I can ever repay. Thank you.

Comments: 1

Comment from Sherlock Holmes, _The Science of Deduction_ : I’m sure that you can count on more followers now that your blog is no longer boring. (Keep in mind that it is the quality of your followers, rather than the number, that matters.)

And I have benefited as well, in more ways than I can express here. In fact, I can truly say that I would be lost without my blogger.


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